


Build A City

by LittleBuddy



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: "Rest and Recreation" except there's no rest and it's all gay, Explicit Sexual Content, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, M/M, literally that's what this is and I'm not even mad about it, piercintyre kisses and working through things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-12 18:55:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28515285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleBuddy/pseuds/LittleBuddy
Summary: Trapper leans into him to laugh when Hawk tells a bad joke. Hawkeye leans back. They’re looking through used books in a shoddy corner stall set up in front of an alley when Hawkeye says it.“This might be the alcohol talking, but I want you to make love to me."
Relationships: "Trapper" John McIntyre/Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce
Comments: 11
Kudos: 45





	Build A City

They're looking through used books in a shoddy corner stall set up in front of an alley when Hawkeye says it. Any other night, they’d be drinking from the still in the Swamp, wrapped in WW2 surplus bathrobes, pretending the walls of the tent were something more than they were - pretending the two of them weren’t anything more than they are. Any other night, there wouldn’t be a window of time in which this could actually happen. Too many people around: nosy tent mates, colonels, not to mention a company clerk who could hear for miles. Hell, Trapper was cautious about _thinking_ too loudly within the walls of the compound.

But no, of course it’s not any other night, when they wouldn’t have been able to do anything but ignore desires like the one Hawkeye just voiced. Tonight, they’ve traded martinis for chūhai, trying as many flavors as they can get their hands on while they walk down the aisle between stalls at the market. They’re not short on time, nor are they observable: they look the same and as different as any of the other groups of foreign men perusing the streets of Tokyo on R&R. Hawkeye’s wearing a nordic fisherman’s sweater over his olive shirt, army-regulation trousers haphazardly tucked and folded into his boots. Trapper’s wearing a white tee shirt and his collarbone is exposed where the field jacket hangs off his shoulders. Their hands occasionally brush together as they walk, and Trapper leans into him to laugh when Hawk tells a bad joke. Hawkeye leans back.

“This might be the alcohol talking, but I want you to make love to me. Not fuck me - make love.” There’s more than the usual ounce of sincerity in his voice, the shroud of humor he cloaks himself in for protection at the 4077th momentarily discarded. Really, there’s nothing truly hindering them from doing whatever they want. Nothing except routine, and Trapper has to admit _(the dark of the alley, the alcohol, the thought Hawkeye just put in his head)_ it’s tempting to slide back between the buildings and take him there. Something about the way Hawk puts an emphasis on it, though - _“make love.”_ \- hits him a little deeper than the usual request. It's not really their MO - they're fast, removed - medical. It serves a purpose - or that's how it started. So often, they’re not allowed time to actually fuck, either. Quick trysts behind the latrine in the dead of night aren’t really fucking. More like.. Well, Trapper doesn’t know, but it’s not the same. Neither is sex in a cot built for ½ a person - something they’d both decided would never be tried again. He's broken from his train of thought with a jarring halt when Hawkeye grabs his wrist.

“Hey, whaddya doin’ -” he pauses, watching with half-piqued interest as Hawkeye raises his left arm, looking at a watch that isn’t there. His fingers are pressed against the pulse point in Trapper’s wrist, and he wonders if Hawk can feel his heart rate speeding up. Hawkeye tuts and makes eye contact with the vendor. 

“Either this man is dead, or my watch has stopped.” 

Trapper shoots the vendor an apologetic look and pulls his wrist out of Hawkeye’s grasp, more out of habit than desire - he wouldn't mind being held like that, not if it was Hawkeye.

“Sorry,” he says. “Just didn't expect that.”

“Me neither. I like to keep things fresh, though, ya know?”

Trapper sets the comic book he’d been considering back inside its crate. “This is no good.”

Hawkeye leans over the crate, eyeing the book. “Oh yeah, that’s awful. If you really want to see a real comic strip, just watch me shower.”

He has to laugh, then. That was good - very Hawkeye, to introduce tension so offhandedly and then joke - as if he hadn’t just yanked the thread on their unraveling situation. “Dammit, Hawk.” Trapper sighs, remnants of the laugh still in his eyes. “That’s not what I meant.”

They move on, rounding the corner. Girls in long kimonos eye them from a doorway, smiling into their sleeves. Despite the push to eliminate prostitution in Japan, the opportunities were plenty - brothels turned geisha house, making the job of finding easy sex even easier to the soldiers who managed to find themselves taking R&R in Tokyo. The girls waving at them from the doorway were a fine example - and Trapper had next to no interest. Sure, women were great - soft here, firm there. Louder than men, in his experience, (although there had been that one professor in med school,) and their long hair was fun to play with.

“Ready to head back? Hawkeye asks this like they aren’t both thinking about what’s going to happen when they get back to the hotel. 

“Sure.”

Hawk leads the way through the crowd, Trapper a step behind. He catches himself studying the way Hawkeye’s hair is curling at the nape of his neck, begging for a trim. Trapper hopes he leaves it a while longer - which brings him back to the trailing thought of men vs. women. Hawkeye’s hair, unlike the geisha girls, smells like Hawkeye; like sleeping outside and sweat. Hawk himself has a particular smell, too, but Trapper can’t quite put his finger on that one, but it’s _Hawk_ , and that’s all he needs. Besides - the dark locks aren’t long enough to yank around like a braid, but they’re long enough to bury his fingers in and grasp. He knows, because he’s done it.

They stop near their hotel to purchase saké. Trapper follows Hawkeye in, nodding at a military man in the corner booth. Habit, again. He’d like to shake the godforsaken war from his boots and move on - preferably with Hawk in tow, although he wonders now and then how he’d deal with being split from Hawkeye early. He doesn’t even know what that means, really - earlier than what? What’s the alternative - the peace talks go through, they go home - and then what? He drags Hawkeye back to Boston with him? Or, alternatively, he follows Hawkeye to Maine? Trapper doesn’t know, doesn’t have a plan. Doesn’t have to decide to follow Hawkeye anywhere but into the hotel, for now, and that’s easy enough. What comes next is the question.

Entering the hotel hallway, he feels a sense of security wash over him. Something about hotels always comforted him - the uniform hallways, the system of keys and privacy that came with a lock on every door. Fresh sheets, empty drawers, a room with a window overlooking a town full of things unknown - strange places, strange people. Nothing to remind him of his outside life, nobody to remind him to follow regulations. Nothing from before, with only the here and now stretching out before him like an infinitely vast canvas for him to paint as he pleases. Is he a man having an illicit affair with his partner, or a man looking at the rest of his life? With Hawkeye next to him - the only piece of the outside world Trapper would allow access willingly - it doesn’t matter. They can be anyone they want to be.

They find their room - only one, because there are two beds, and they’re used to sharing much smaller space - and neither of them intend to use both beds, anyway. Hawkeye opens the sake as soon as they get in, drinking straight from the jar. Trapper holds out his hand, and Hawk passes it to him, sitting on the edge of the bed and bending to unlace his boots. Trapper takes a long drink from the bottle, swallowing hard. _Make love._ So far, they haven’t. He’s managed to stay detached enough that he just thinks about it as sex, as sleeping together, but never as making love. Would it even be fair to do right now? He’s drunk, but not too drunk to be unaware. Hawkeye’s obviously floating around in the same general area, easily untying his shoes.

“Wait.”

Hawkeye stops.

He still doesn’t know if he can do what Hawkeye wants, but he can do something, anyway. Even if he can’t do that. Trapper ambles across the room, stopping in front of his tent mate, close enough that their knees are touching.

Proximity with Hawk always turns Trapper into someone else - someone needier, gentler. His skin prickles with urgency, the hair on the back of his neck asking to be scratched. The pull to Hawkeye is strong, even just standing there, but that feeling doesn’t hold a candle to the one that comes over him when he kneels to remove Hawkeye’s boots. One at a time, he slips the McNamaras from Hawkeye’s feet, dropping them at the end of the bed.

“Foot rub?” Hawkeye cocks an eyebrow hopefully.

“In your dreams.”

“All the time, actually.”

Trapper rolls his eyes, using Hawkeye’s knees to brace himself as he stands. He pulls Hawkeye to his feet and they stand toe-to-toe. 

“Kiss me, Captain McIntyre.” Hawkeye’s breath is hot on his cheek.

Trapper obliges willingly - he’s wanted to kiss him all night. He tastes the lingering ghost of saké on Hawk’s tongue and bites at his lip, earning a groan. Trapper pulls back, hands going to Hawkeye’s belt. They’ve helped each other undress before, but he tries to make this different - slower. Meaningful. _Hell._ He doesn’t know what meaningful looks like anymore, just knows that he means it. He’s meant it every time they’ve had sex, but he doesn’t know if Hawkeye knows that. Why would he? They’re just _them_ for the duration of the war. Neither of them can realistically expect this to last, if they’re honest. So why mean it? Why get deeper than he already is, making it all that much harder to extricate himself when the time comes?

Hawkeye, freed from his belt, steps out of the pants that are now pooling around his ankles. Trapper kisses him again. 

“We’re kind of uneven, aren’t we?” Hawkeye motions to Trapper’s clothes. Trapper definitely agrees, and leans down to untie his shoes - but Hawkeye’s kneeling before he can finish the motion, planting himself on his knees in front of Trapper. One hand on Trapper’s ankle, Hawk pulls the laces free with his other hand. Trapper toes off his shoes and Hawkeye looks up, but his gaze doesn’t make it above the waistline of Trap’s olive green trousers. Trapper blushes to the roots of his curls, knowing full well that Hawkeye’s seeing exactly what Trapper’s thinking about.

“Hawk…” he trails off, not wanting to say “I can’t do this” or “I’m afraid.” Those aren’t things you need to say to someone you’re definitely not getting attached to. “I love you” is also a confession he _could_ make, but that’s really something you don’t tell your best friend. He’s saved having to find an answer though, because how can he answer when Hawk’s mouthing Trapper’s cock through his pants like that?

“Fuck, Hawkeye.”

The surgeon laughs. “Yes, please “fuck Hawkeye.’”

Trapper wants to. Wants to pin Hawkeye to the floor and pound him into the oriental rug, wants to leave marks on his hips and his chest and make Hawkeye come unraveled beneath him.

They’ve done this before - started like this. Slower, methodical. But it’s always out of teasing instead of intention. Trapper’s spent days just taunting Hawk: making him watch while he masturbates in the showers, rubbing Hawk under the table while they eat lunch in a full mess tent - only to stop short of the goal, leaving Hawkeye a whining mess. But this.. this could go differently, if he lets it. He wants to let it, but...

“It’s okay, Trap.” Hawkeye’s voice is almost too quiet to hear. “You don’t have to.”

Trapper pulls Hawkeye up to his eyes. They stare back with what Hawk hopes is careful veiling of his disappointment, what Trapper sees is right through and falls out the other side of.

“Come on.” Hawk gives him a too-bright smile. “It’s impolite to leave a lady waiting.” He breaks eye contact, sitting on the bed and pulling Trapper toward him. Trapper folds, discarding his shirt and pulling his boxers off with his trousers in one fell swoop. Crawling onto the bed, he presses himself against Hawkeye and immediately feels Hawk’s erection against his hip. It’s all Trapper can do to stop himself from grinding against him, the thought of cumming on Hawkeye’s pale stomach making him groan out loud. They stay like this, rubbing and pressing and kissing, until Trapper has to back off or cum now.

“I don’t want to fail.” His face is pressed into Hawkeye’s neck, and he immediately wishes he hadn’t said it. Hawkeye will try to fix it, try to prove that he won’t, try to belay Trapper’s worries, and that’s not what he wants. He wants to worry. He wants to be afraid, wants to hesitate. As long as he’s stalling, he’s safe - and more importantly, Hawk’s safe.

It’s a while before Hawkeye replies, long enough that Trapper starts to think he hadn’t heard him. 

“You could be Thomas Edison, you know? Don’t think of it as failing.. think of it as finding out whether or not we work that way.” His hands trail up and down Trapper’s spine, writing words against his flank that Trapper can only guess at. 

“This isn’t a lightbulb, Hawk.” Trapper pushes his face down into the pillow, drinking in the heat of his own breath.

Hawkeye’s chest shakes with a silent laugh. “I mean, you _do_ turn me on.”

Trapper raises up, arching against Hawkeye’s chest. “Do you even know what you’re askin' for?” _A confession, with action if not with words. Walking away from the open door where absolution beckoned him, moving further into the fire that rages inside the house of worship he’s built around Hawkeye, allowing the flames to consume him -_

“Yes.” Once again, Hawkeye’s voice pulls him out of his head. He’s always doing this - bringing him back from himself. Trapper studies Hawkeye, waiting. Wanting.

“Yes?”

“I’m asking to be an invention of 10,000 steps.” Hawkeye shrugs and reaches up to card his fingers through Trapper’s curls. “I wouldn’t care if you wrecked me the other 9,999 times.”

“I don’t want to wreck...” Trapper shakes his head. “..this.” 

“Then let’s succeed,” Hawkeye says, and that’s all it takes. Trapper can’t keep pushing back, doesn’t have the energy or the want to - he just wants Hawkeye. Only Hawkeye, always Hawkeye.  
Trapper doesn’t say anything - doesn’t have to, even if he’d had the words to. He sits up, straddling Hawkeye’s thighs, pulling him up with him. When he slides Hawkeye’s shirt up, it’s achingly slow, the tips of his fingers dragging softly along the bare skin of Hawk’s ribs. Trapper pulls the shirt over Hawkeye’s head and his hair flops messily over his brow. Trapper brushes it away tenderly, like his whole being rests on moving the dark locks out of Hawkeye’s eyes.

“Okay. Okay,” Trapper says. He’s not sure if he’s reassuring himself or agreeing with Hawkeye, but it works either way. 

They kiss with a fervency he hasn’t felt before, a new kind of urgency. He presses Hawk back against the pillows, hand reaching between them - fuck. The fabric of Hawkeye’s shorts is one barrier too many between them. Kissing his way down Hawkeye’s torso, Trapper slaps him lightly on the thigh.

“Raise up for me.” 

Hawkeye does, and Trapper slides the shorts down his thighs. Hawkeye is hard, precum at the tip of his dick. Trapper wipes it off, trying to ignore the shudder that goes through Hawkeye, and licks the end of his finger. _That_ drives Hawkeye through the roof, apparently - next thing Trapper knows, Hawk’s pulling him down on top of him, kissing him hard enough Trapper tastes blood. He licks the spot on his lip and hopes it scabs over so he can touch it daily. That's them - a raw spot he'd keep open as long as he can, if just to feel the excitement from the memory it represents.

Hawkeye’s rutting up against Trapper with all the elegance and coordination of a teenager. If they’re going to do this, they’re going to do it right. Despite the indignant noise from the man under him, Trapper kisses and maneuvers and directs until Hawkeye’s on all fours on the bed. Kneeling behind him, Trapper lets his cock slide against Hawkeye.

“Fuck, Trapper. Stop teasing already! I-“ Hawkeye’s complaint breaks off in a groan when Trapper slides a slick finger inside him. His own cock twitches in response to the noise, and he lazily strokes it, matching the slow rhythm he’s finger fucking Hawk at. Eventually, he adds another finger - earning more expletives. They’ve only done _this_ once before - and Trapper can’t say he called it a success. They were ill prepared and on edge then - unlike now, when they're able to let down their walls. 

Hawkeye’s shaking under Trapper's hands, trembling as he lets himself be stretched and stroked. Finally, when Trapper’s about to call it himself, Hawkeye pulls himself off Trapper’s fingers and turns to face him. His face has a look Trapper hasn’t seen before, one that’s begging and vulnerable and so, so open that Trapper almost cries. He kisses Hawkeye, long and hard, hoping he can feel the emotions there that Trapper can’t put to words.

Hands on hips and shoulders, tongue in Hawkeye’s mouth, he lays him down again, this time pausing to reach across the bed to the nightstand and retrieve the bottle of lube he’d brought.

“My boy scout,” Hawkeye says. Trapper laughs.

”I ain’t a boy scout.”

“Are you mine?” 

Trapper thrusts into Hawkeye then, one solid, deep thrust, and feels Hawkeye clench down on him. He grins down at Hawkeye, who's clenched his eyes shut, mouth falling open.

“Yeah, Hawk. All yours.”

He moves slowly, Hawkeye’s knees bent on either side of Trapper's torso. When Hawkeye takes Trapper’s thumb in his mouth and sucks it, the action goes straight to Trapper’s groin. 

“Faster, Trap. Please, please.” Hawkeye’s starting to lose it, and Trapper’s glad - he won’t last long at this point, isn’t sure he could if he wanted to. He speeds up, thrusts harder and deeper. Hawkeye’s hand comes up between them, stroking his own cock hurriedly, messily. With the hand not supporting his weight, Trapper twists Hawkeye’s nipple.

“Oh god, god..” Hawkeye dissolves into incoherent mumbling and Trapper lowers himself on his forearms, sucking a spot on Hawkeye’s collarbone. 

“I’m going..going to-“ Hawkeye’s panting, trying to squeeze the words between gasps. That taut feeling is gathering in Trapper’s gut, and he knows he’s close, too.

“Be a good boy and cum with me, Hawk.”

He does - they do - and while Hawkeye unravels beneath him, Trapper feels himself dissolving against Hawkeye’s body, the ache he’d felt dissipating and spreading to a relief that reaches even his fingertips. Breathing heavily, Trapper raises enough to rest their foreheads together.

“Finestkind,” he whispers.

“Trap, I…” Hawkeye’s crying, his hands coming up to cradle Trapper’s face, thumb rubbing his jawline.

“This isn’t the alcohol talking,” Trapper says. “I love you, ya know?”

Hawkeye’s hand wraps around the back of Trapper’s head, grasping his hair lightly. 

“I know,” and then - “love you, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title inspiration from "Road Music" by Richard Siken.


End file.
